good day to be friends with the savory chef

Paul is our one savory chef, and so far my closest friend at Patisse. He's in his early thirties and has been a chef since he was twenty. It's hard being the only savory chef in a kitchen full of pastry chefs. Paul makes his job look easy. His soups are tasty, his plates always look beautiful going out, and he's teaching me his side dish-by-dish, so I can help out once in awhile when things get hairy.

Paul's wife is Australian. He is from England. She lived there for seven years, then decided it was time to move home. They spent a year traveling the world before buying a house on the beach outside of Sydney. And now they're pregnant. Yay! I can only hope the new baby situation doesn't prevent me from finagling an invitation to their house (and the beach) in the next few months . . .

Paul likes to talk. Not a lot of talking happens when the Big Chef is around, and a lot of the time, the rest of us are too busy to talk anyway. But I try to listen when I can. Sometimes it can feel like Paul and I (and just a few others) are afloat on the English island in a river of French. The head chef, the two cheeky chefs I answer to, and a number of the front people are often resorting to French for the all the good stuff (the jokes, gossip from the weekend, the nitty gritty of how to pipe a nice eclair).

Sometimes he needs to let off some steam or out bit of grumbling when we meet in the cool room. I listen. In return, he grabs the square tins off the top of the shelves for me. I help him chop vegetables when I can. He shows me the fastest way to break down the box when my only instructions from the other chefs are, "put away the eggs." I laugh at his jokes (most of the time) and he has often taken my side when I was blamed for something. I try to be on good terms with everyone in the kitchen. With Paul it feels more like an ally. If he's looking for an extra hand I'm the first to volunteer. And I know I can count on him for help when I really need him.

But this post is supposed to be about my lunch. Which on days when I am lucky enough to get a break, is usually a wrap, a sandwich, or some days just a big salad with lemon dressing and pine nuts. There are meat pies if I want them (as there seem to be all over Sydney) but I don't get excited about meat pies . . . or quiche pies really anymore (that I bake them every day may have something to do with it).

But this Moussaka, which Paul whipped up for a Saturday special, had me all lusty-eyed from the moment he started cooking the beef Friday afternoon. This morning I was only half-listening to his out-loud thinking about the specials for this week, when I suddenly heard, "I've still got some in there. You can have a piece for lunch if you want."

I did not forget. And oh it was good. Layers of grilled eggplant and bechamel sauce on top of that meat that had wooed me as it cooked. And oh, I ate it in the sunshine. A lunch very much worthy of the sunshine. Thank you, Paul.